


When the Devil Tips Their Hat

by i88



Series: When the Devil Tips Their Hat [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death Fix, F/M, Fix-It, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Multi, what if the gang realized dutch was incompetent early on?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:13:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21812737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i88/pseuds/i88
Summary: "Revenge is a luxury we could never afford, but I s'pose I'm a rich man now, ain't I?"Sean MacGuire is cured of the hole in his head by the traveling, cross-dressing doctor Moira Morningstar. While his head was emptied of buckshot, Sean is now filled with a white-hot rage against Dutch's lies and disregard for his former gang's safety. With a new perspective and powerful allies in the form of the all-female Magnolia Gang Dr. Morningstar is a part of, Sean vows to liberate his van der Linde family by killing and cashing in their captor: Dutch van der Linde.Part I in the "When the Devil Tips Their Hat" Series
Relationships: Sean MacGuire/Original Character(s), Sean MacGuire/Original Female Character(s)
Series: When the Devil Tips Their Hat [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571734
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	1. Prologue: Money Lending and Other Sins

**Author's Note:**

> Hello All! I love RD2 and I wrote this fic with the idea in mind that none of the bad things would have happened if someone would have challenged Dutch or realized what the hell was going on much sooner. The title comes from my love of mildly threatening old wives tales where advice turns ominous quickly. So occasionally there will be variations on the title of what the Devil will do. So this fic is more than a fix-it (I mean I'm gonna fix a lot of stuff y'all as a means of self-indulgence); it's an exploration of what if just one thing doesn't happen, how does that offset the rest of the story? Also, Sean deserved better so he's our main protagonist in this part of the story. Please enjoy!

_The Devil tips their hat only when their hands are too full to hold you._

Trading the chill of Colter for the sheep shit tinged town of Valentine was more akin to traveling laterally across rock bottom than beginning the hazardous claw upwards. With no energy or men to plan another major heist, the Van der Linde gang were stuck doing small cons and petty thefts to replenish camp funds and their bruised ego.

Which is why Arthur Morgan was playing shark loan instead of sharpshooter this humid afternoon.

The dirt kicking up from Tiffany’s hooves dusted Arthur’s jeans, the horse’s golden coat turned grey.

Thomas Downes borrowed money from Strauss. Something about a bad harvest. Not that it mattered as anyone foolish enough to borrow from Strauss wouldn’t have enough sense to get themselves out of trouble in the first place.

He slowed Tiffany to a trot, eyeing the wagon parked near the broken, white picket fence outside the Downe’s home.

Hitching her to the fence, Arthur hopped off and stalked around the large purple wagon. There was no writing on either side indicating what it was for but judging by the white Arabian horses nickering at the head, he could imagine that they had to be of some opulence.

"I’m sorry, sir, but if you’ve come to visit the Downes I suggest you return from whence you came.”

Arthur turned on his heel, his spurs jingling. A tall, thin man in a black coat, eye patch and pencil mustache approached the wagon, lowering the back to stow his carpet bag. His black curly hair was pulled into a ponytail and tucked beneath a wide brim black hat.

“You their butler or somethin’?” Arthur asked, striking his match on the bottom of his boot.

“While my bedside manner is impeccable, my cooking leaves much to be desired,” the man said with a laugh wavering on becoming a giggle. Arthur flinched when the man reached inside his coat, relaxing at the lavender-colored business card. “Doctor M. Morningstar, at your service.”

He took the business card, flipping it between his large, calloused fingertips, the gold seal with his initials catching in the afternoon sun. He leaned against the wagon, sizing up the doctor as he pushed the card into his back pocket.

“Quite some callin’ cards; you from Saint Dennis?”

Morningstar snorted. “I have no patience for city living nor the people who inhabit it. I prefer traveling around, get to see the country and meet fine folks like yourself, Mister…”

“Kilgore,” Arthur offered, the alias slipping off his tongue too easily. He continued, mumbling as he scratched his cheek, “’though I can’t say I’m too fine.”

Arthur began to approach the gate only to be stopped by Morningstar’s sharp voice once more.

“You don’t want to go in there.”

“Can afford a doctor but can’t pay back their debt, that it?” he asked, resting his hands on his holster.

“If I offered Mr. Downes the same type of payment plan you did, I wouldn’t see my $15 until his son finished burying him,” the doctor said, climbing into the wagon’s seat.

“Goddammit, Strauss,” Arthur cursed, running his hand down his sweaty face. He reached out and snatched Morningstar’s arm, wrapping his hand easily around the thin bicep. “I ain’t leaving here empty handed, and if you’re keen on keepin’ me from makin’ _my_ house call, you better have more in your pocket than callin’ cards.”

Morningstar sighed, more inconvenienced than frightened, rubbing his temples before hopping off the wagon, heading toward the back. “How much do they owe you?”

Arthur let go of his arm, scratching his cheek. “Not sure. I collect, have nothin’ to do with distributin’.”

“Clearly.”

The doctor climbed into the back of the wagon, contorting to fit in the mobile doctor’s office.

“How you treat anybody back there?” Arthur asked, craning his neck to get more of a glimpse inside.

“Very carefully. This wagon belonged to an herb salesman who built the storage shelves right into the back. A clever man, albeit small.”

He could hear the doctor’s snort from inside the wagon. “Well here’s $200 and a bottle of whiskey; will that do?”

“Sure,” he said, taking the cash to count it before accepting the bottle. Arthur whistled for Tiffany, stashing the whiskey bottle in her saddlebag. “Pleasure doing business with you, Doctor Morningstar; I’m sure the Downes appreciate your charity.”

“It’s not about charity, Mister Kilgore so much as it is not causing an epidemic,” Morningstar huffed, climbing out of the back as Arthur hopped onto his horse. “You owe me your life, sir! You’d have surely caught tuberculosis if I weren’t here to stop you!”

Arthur waved lazily over his shoulder, disappearing in a cloud of dust as Tiffany galloped back toward camp.


	2. Where the Fork splits in Rhodes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy y'all! I'm quarantined for work so I figured I would go ahead and post this. Your kudos mean so much to me and I appreciate your enjoyment of the story. Stay safe, wash your hands, and look! The plot has arrived!

_If the Devil saves you from the kiss of death, don’t expect their kiss to be any sweeter._

The ink blue tongue of dusk licked the light clean off the plains of Scarlet Meadows. The last light on the road was the burnt end of a cigarette hanging from the mouth of a wagon driver, hypnotized by how the Arabian horses turned pink to silver with each flick of their braided tails matching her own swinging in tandem.

Her hand itched to light the lanterns on either side of her, but in Lemoyne the only thing more dangerous than a woman traveling in the dark would be for other travelers to see the darkness of her skin. 

A spidery hand shot out from the back of the purple wagon’s curtain, causing the cigarette to fall down her plaid shirt like a firefly.

“Shit!”

“Bert, can you slow down a bit more? I’m having trouble extracting the bullet,” the hand said, patting Bert’s shoulder reassuringly.

“I’m going as slow as I can; we’ll be in Saint Dennis by Christmas at this pace!” Bert said, her braids thumping against her neck. She lit another cigarette, putting it in the spidery hand to allow her companion the first puff.

The hand sucked into the curtain, a cloud seeping between the green drapes. A head popped through the curtain this time, joining the hand. Dr. Morningstar, with the mustache washed off with blood and black eyepatch swapped for a silk one, became Moira once more. Her black hair was pulled tightly on top her head, almost looking like a bottle.

She took another drag, wiping her bloodied hand on her pants before setting the cigarette between Bert’s lips.

“How’s the patient you purchased?”

Moira’s sharp nose wrinkled, her face puckering. “Don’t say it like that.”

“How am I supposed to say it then? $50 for another mouth to feed. His dead body ain’t even worth that much,” Bert muttered, cracking the reigns as soon as the doctor settled into the back of the wagon.

“If I can cure him of the hole in his head, he’ll be worth that ten times over!”

“If anyone can do it, it’s you, Doc. It’s a two-day ride to Saint Dennis; let me know if we need to stop to dump him, don’t want him stinking up the whole wagon.”

“Yeah, yeah, now let me work, woman!” Moira’s voice muffled behind her second-hand surgical mask.

She stopped the bleeding before pulling the bullet out of his head, setting it aside in a tin cup. His headshot wound was nearly fatal, but if he were blasted with a shotgun he would have surely been dead.

_What began as a supply run on the way to Saint Dennis turned into blood bath. Moira hadn’t gotten a word in with the local pharmacist before he was shot through the head as a shootout erupted outside._

_The front window burst, glass showering her and her companion Liberty “Bert” Miller. The glass shimmered in her braids like spun sugar._

_“I told you we shoulda went to Saint Dennis instead!” Bert yelled over the shot gun blasts, pulling Moira over the pharmacist counter with her._

_“Well we sure as hell can’t leave now,” she replied, crawling along the floor to loot the deceased doctor’s pockets. “How was I supposed to know this was going to happen?_

_The gunslinger rolled her eyes, counting off on her calloused fingers. “What didn’t tip ya off? The Lemoyne Raiders that greeted us with a lynch mob, the feud between those families over whose more in-bred, or the gang hanging in the woods that almost shot us?”_

_She turned him over, opening his mouth to check his teeth. Smiling grimly, the doctor pulled a pair of dental pliers out of her back pocket, extracting the gold molars. “Idle hands, Ms. Miller…”_

_“As if your hands are any better,” she muttered, focusing on cleaning out the pharmacy between gunshots as Moira worked. Pills, morphine, bandages, cash filled the empty rice sack found in the supply closet._

_“Should we take his femur? I have an order for one in New York that I haven’t filled yet.”_

_“I’m sure we can find one off of the bodies out there; keep your head down, lady!”_

_The silence between shots fired and the groans of men slowed, like waiting for to tell how far off thunder was. Bert crept to the busted window, watching the group of men left standing to argue in the town square. Moira knelt beside her, pulling a spyglass out of her breast pocket._

_At their feet lay a redheaded mad, blood pouring out of a headshot wound. The men gestured to him frequently as they argued._

_“I think they’re leaving, let’s go—”_

_Her companion held up a hand._

_“I think that man’s still alive.”_

_“What? How?”_

_“Let’s find out.”_

_“Moira!”_

_Bill Williamson hoisted Sean over his back, grunting beneath his weight. His dead weight. He hadn’t taken two steps toward Brown Jack when he heard a voice behind him._

_“Excuse me, sir!”_

_His gun was out of his holster before he turned, pointed at the six foot, bespectacled man in a white coat with curly black hair tied behind his head with a ribbon. He held up his hands, scratching his pencil mustache._

_He cocked his gun behind him to see a dark skinned woman joining the man’s side with her hands up, but low._

_“I mean no harm; I’m a doctor, actually. I just want to help your friend,” he continued, nodding at Sean’s back._

_“Look, Mister—”_

_“Doctor Morningstar—”_

_“Look, Morningstar,” Bill huffed, lowering his gun to his hip. “I don’t want whatever snake oil you’re selling. Get lost and loot off those inbreeds behind ya; I need to bury my friend in peace.”_

_“Your friend is alive, sir. I can save him!”_

_Bill’s hand twitched on his revolver. “You ain’t one of those perverts are ya?”_

_“I can assure you sir, Dr. Morningstar fucks like a corpse but he is not a corpse fucker,” Bert chimed, earning a steely glare from her companion._

_“I’ll give you $50 for him.”_

_“Doc!” Bert hissed._

_Bill glanced down at Sean, the wind blowing dust into the blood pooling from the back of his head._

_“$70.”_

_“Christ, is he a prince?”_

_“He ain’t a prince but he’s a friend._

_“If he ain’t alive, bury him in Clemen’s Point,” Bill said, carefully placing Sean’s body on the back of the doctor’s purple medical wagon._

_“My card, Sir. I’ll tell you either where I’ve buried him or where I’ll drop him off; regardless, he will be yours again.”_

“You’re a lucky man Mister Maguire,” she murmured, reaching above their heads to steady the lamp with one hand while the other opened one of his eyes. Blue as the sky, the iris twitched to adjust to the invading light. “Lucky, lucky, lucky.”

Star waited for the wagon to stop completely before grabbing her cutting shears and setting to work trimming his matted hair. It wouldn’t look pretty, least not until they got to St. Dennis and a barber could clean it up. His long red hair caked in mud and blood fell into a steel pale till he resembled more of a poorly shearn ginger cat.

“Gotta disinfect you before I patch you up,” she said, uncorking the bottle of vodka with her teeth so her free hand could hold the side of his head in place.

Fire filled Sean’s head, leaking down the side of his scruffy face with no hair to catch it.

He was in Hell, surely.

Skull stitched together without morphine, cauterized with a candlestick and gunpowder.

“Fuck,” he grunted, barely able to summon the strength to grimace.

His nails dug into the cot he was strapped to.

A voice, low and steady in his ear washed over him. “Stay with me. We’re nearly there.”

“Fuck!”

“Almost through,” the voice said, pulling the needle through the skin one last time, snipping it off with a small hunting knife. “There, let me bandage you up and you can rest.”

She wound the white bandage carefully around his head, tying the knot at the back of his head before laying his head back on the cot.

“I’m leaving your waist strapped lest you roll off, but I’ll undo your hands,” she said, undoing the leather cuffs on either side of the cot. She extinguished the lamp above them before stepping through the curtain to the driver’s seat of the wagon.

Sean’s mind grew fuzzy before sleep swallowed him whole.

Sean flitted in and out of consciousness for the first week.

His eyes only stayed open enough for the blur to feed him or bathe him.

The air grew hot and soupy as the journey went on, the incline of his body suggesting they were going up into a swamp. He was surely in hell now. 


End file.
